


The Magic Lute

by Telynores



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Gen, Is the lute a character?, Some mention of torture but no actual torture, There will be no broken instruments in my fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29092764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telynores/pseuds/Telynores
Summary: An elven-made lute is probably magic, right?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	The Magic Lute

**Author's Note:**

> Showing up late to this fandom. I've only seen the Netflix show and read one of the books, so the magic system is made up and the timeline doesn't matter.

Jaskier had been traveling with the Witcher for most of the year now. Geralt still preferred to ignore him, except for the occasional witty and extremely hurtful remarks about his singing, but Jaskier refused to be put off. Just the other day, Geralt had quirked a smile at him. Well, that or it was constipation. But he’d take what he could get! There was no way he was going to abandon the best muse he’d ever come across. In the last few months alone, he’d written more than he had in the year before, even with the Witcher’s notable reluctance to give Jaskier any details about his hunts. The trick was to spout off terrible, incorrect facts about monsters – Geralt couldn’t help but correct him. He was pretty sure that Geralt knew what he was doing, but the Witcher humored him anyway.

He was pestering Geralt during one such conversation when the Witcher hushed him.

“Rude, Geralt!” he exclaimed. “I know you don’t like my questions, but there’s no need to shush me.”

“Quiet,” Geralt snapped.

It was different enough from his normal, put-upon tone that Jaskier shut his mouth. Something must really be wrong.

Geralt grabbed for his sword just as bandits fell on their campsite. Jaskier scurried off behind a log, trusting the Witcher to take care of the three bandits. They were definitely no match for a Witcher, Jaskier thought, watching Geralt fight them off. He winced as blood spatter got on his bags. That stain was not going to come out.

The bandits didn’t stand a chance, and soon Geralt stood alone in the clearing, not even breathing heavily. “You can come out now, bard,” he said, sitting down and starting to wipe off the sword.

Jaskier climbed out from behind the log, feeling a little bit abashed. “Yes, well,” he fumbled, brushing dirt off his trousers. “I didn’t want to get in the way, you see. What would I do against a trio of bandits? Sing them to death?”

“Your singing would certainly make them wish they were dead,” Geralt said. He quirked that little half-smile. “You could always smash them over the head with your lute.”

“Smash them over the head with my lute!” Jaskier gasped. “Geralt, you heathen. You don’t treat a beautiful instrument like that. Besides, then it would break, and how would I be able to feed us then?”

Geralt grunted. “It’s a magic lute, it’ll probably be fine. And better a smashed lute than dead.”

“Aw, you care,” Jaskier said. “And definitely better dead than with a smashed lute.” He inspected the instrument in question. “Do you really think it’s magic?”

Another grunt. “It’s from the prince of the elves, what do you think?”

Jaskier was dubious – he’d never noticed any particular magical powers, but he supposed Geralt knew what he was talking about. Then he noticed the almost smirk that the Witcher wore. “You’re making fun of me,” he accused. Geralt just shrugged and went back to his dinner.

-

It was a magic lute. That was the only explanation for the absolutely wild phenomenon that followed him after he parted company with Geralt as the autumn faded. The Witcher had gone off to wherever he wintered, and Jaskier was heading south for warmer climes and deeper pockets, thank you very much. He stopped to camp that first night with it threatening to rain.

“Hope it stays dry,” he said idly to himself, plucking his lute a bit more before placing it safely in its case. He didn’t fancy a damp campsite.

In the morning, the woods around him were wet and the road was a mass of mud, but he and his belongings were all dry. He credited his good fortune with the tree he’d decided to sleep under and thought nothing else of it.

It was always a bit dicey to travel alone, without a great hulking man with swords at one’s side. However, contrary to popular (cough, a very specific Witcher’s) belief, he didn’t just meander down the road strumming his lute and waiting to be attacked by bandits. Think of the dust on the instrument! The mud! The humidity!

On the contrary, he kept to the main roads, falling in with other travelers when he could and providing entertainment sometimes in exchange for some extra food or drink. But sometimes he had to travel by himself, and he kept his bright doublets covered and his head down. He’d leave the road if the travelers coming the other way looked unsavory, and camped out of sight of the road when he couldn’t find an inn.

It was at one such campsite that he’d stopped for the night, a few weeks after he’d left the Witcher. He was still a week or so from his final destination, and the air was starting to get uncomfortably cold, so he was rather firmly bundled in his cloak with a small fire burning down to embers as he tried some new patterns out on the lute. He needed plenty of new material to get him through a winter in one place.

There was a rustling in the undergrowth behind him, and he turned, wondering if a wild animal had come to investigate the campsite. Hopefully it was a wild animal. He kept strumming his lute, a little more aggressively, and sang a little more loudly hoping to scare whatever it was off. Weren’t bears supposed to leave you alone if you made enough noise?

The rustling stopped, so he assumed the animal had left. Just to be safe, he slowly went to investigate and found a pair of unsavory chaps, out cold. He couldn’t tell what had knocked them out, but he counted his blessings and quickly packed up his camp and moved further along, putting as much distance between himself and the would-be bandits as he could in the dark. He set up camp again, this time with no fire.

The incidents kept happening. He left a bowl of extremely dubious looking stew on a table while he played, and returned to a steaming hot bowl of deliciousness. A gang of drunks cornered him in an alley when he arrived late at an inn, shoving him against the wall so hard that his lute jangled in its case. At the noise, they suddenly became confused and befuddled, wandering out of the alley and leaving him alone.

Winter left and spring arrived and Jaskier left the south and headed back north again. He was pretending that he wasn’t hoping to see the Witcher again, but he still kept his ears open just in case.

Finally, he heard some rumors of a white-haired Witcher who had just saved the next town from drowners. At the next town, the Witcher had moved on, hunting a basilisk.

“It seems like I’m always just a day behind him,” Jaskier lamented, idly strumming his lute. He was camped for the night in the woods, the distance to the next town being too far to travel in one day. Normally he’d be more worried about something in the woods seeing his fire and making a bard snack out of him but the incidents over the past season had made him a little more confident in his ability (or his lute’s) to take care of things.

This did not solve his Witcher problem however. “How to find a Witcher?” he mused. “Could I lure him to me? Would he follow rumors of a bard? Or would he just run the other way?”

Just then, he heard the jangling of a horse’s tack and the low footfalls of someone approaching the camp. Cursing himself for deciding on a fire, he grabbed his belongings and hustled behind the nearest tree. The noises came closer, until they were upon his campsite.

“You might as well come out, Jaskier,” Geralt growled. “I can smell you hiding nearby.”

Jaskier sprang out from behind the tree. “Geralt!” he exclaimed. “I was afraid you might be a bandit. How did you find me? No wait,” he said, before Geralt could answer, “my magic lute summoned you!”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “The gods forbid you have a magic, Witcher-summoning lute. I’ll never get a moment’s peace.”

Jaskier pouted. “Mean.” He stroked the lute. “The big bad Witcher doesn’t appreciate you, but I do.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and strode off, Jaskier scrambling to follow.

He didn’t think much of it after that. The lute’s magic wasn’t as necessary when he was travelling with Geralt, but when they parted ways, either for the winter or because one of them had business elsewhere, it was a blessing that made his life significantly easier and more pleasant. As time went on, he began to be able to do more and more deliberate magic with it – nothing like harnessing actual chaos, but with the correct application of tune and lyrics he could usually get things to go his way more often than not.

And then they met up with the witch.

Maybe that was a bit unfair, Jaskier thought, as she approached their fire. Surely it wasn’t her fault that she and Geralt just kept finding each other. It must be destiny, or some shit. Hmm…that wasn’t a bad song idea. Lovers, bound by destiny, but forced by circumstances to be apart. And if it was just too easy to rhyme witch with bitch…

“Budge over, bard,” the sorceress in question snapped, moving to sit between him and Geralt. He squawked and grabbed his lute, which had been lying there. “Don’t hurt the lute!” he snapped. “I would think a sorceress would know better than to sit on a magic instrument.”

“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Geralt smirked.

Jaskier fumed indignantly. “This lute is priceless, and its magic has gotten me out of many a pickle, so you could at least pretend to be careful.”

Yennefer barely glanced at the lute. “It’s not magic.”

“What.” Jaskier must have heard wrong. “It’s from a prince of the elves, of course it’s a magic lute.”

“It’s a princely gift that I doubt your mediocre singing deserved,” she said, “but it has no more magic than Geralt’s horse.”

Jaskier tried to decide whether he should address the mediocre singing comment or the magic comment and ended up just switching the topic of conversation. Maybe Roach was secretly magic and no one had bothered to tell him.

He didn’t get a chance to interrogate Yennefer any further, unfortunately, because then there was the shortcut to the top of the mountain, and then he slept through the dragon but unfortunately not through Yennefer and Geralt breaking up rather spectacularly. It ended with him clutching his (magic!) lute and stumbling down the mountain alone.

He stopped at the base, sitting down heavily on a rock. He contemplated his lute. “Well,” he said to himself. “If the Witcher wants the bard to leave him alone, he shall have his wish.”

His songs had been drawing himself and Geralt together all these years, but maybe it was time for a song to have them go their separate ways, a tragic but natural ending, if you will. He’d never done something on this scale before, but the lyrics and the tune came to him easily. All he had to do was remember Geralt shouting at him, and it was very easy to sing about never seeing or being seen by the Witcher again.

He should have left after that, cut his losses and moved on to the next song, the next town. But he stayed by the road for the next few hours out of some sick curiosity. Great would have to come back off the mountain this way, and the question was if he would notice Jaskier when he did. Or would his song work, and the Witcher would never cross paths with the bard again?

He waited long enough that he’d grown quite bored and thought about moving on anyway, when he spied a familiar shape coming down the road. There was no way Geralt could miss him even if he weren’t looking (which of course he wouldn’t be). Jaskier was sat right on the side of the road in plain view.

But Geralt just walked right past, no sign that he’d noticed Jaskier at all, even though he was glancing off to the side of the road as if keeping an eye out for someone (which couldn’t be true). Of course, he could just be pretending to ignore him, so Jaskier started singing Toss a Coin. Guaranteed to annoy no matter what. Still nothing. He was well and truly out of Geralt’s life now.

Jaskier continued on, alone now for good. He headed towards Oxenfurt, since that was the closest to home that he would get now. A couple of times he was recognized as the Witcher’s bard and asked to play specific songs, but more often than not he was able to get by on a more standard repertoire without anyone being the wiser. It just proved that he wasn’t really worth much of anything without Geralt. Or it could be that he deliberately used his magic lute to convince people not to associate him with any Witchers. But the first one was more poetic.

Unfortunately, he always made more when he played his Witcher songs, whether the Witcher in question was present or not. After spending two semesters at Oxenfurt, he’d grown bored with teaching and decided to head back out on the road again. Given that he was pushing forty, he would probably have to resign himself to settling down sooner or later, but not just yet. “Still got one more season in us at least, don’t we?” he said to his trusty lute. “It would certainly be a shame to lock up a beautiful, magical instrument and its equally beautiful owner in a university for the rest of its days, wouldn’t it?”

The lute, of course, didn’t answer, but he felt vindicated all the same.

He’d left most of his newly accumulated possessions back at the university in the rooms he was now letting, which meant that most of his money did run out after about a month on the road. This far south, people were less likely to spend. The encroaching war with Nilfgaard was starting to wear on people, and they had no time and money to spare on wandering minstrels.

Jaskier considered heading back north, but he tried one last tavern where he was sure to identify himself as the bard who wrote about the Witcher. There was a little more interest (and a little more coin) from that, and he was able to settle down at a table with a well-deserved ale after his set. And it wasn’t even watered down! Much.

There was some sort of kerfuffle from the door of the tavern. A few men had come in, obviously heavily armed, and the rest of the patrons weren’t too happy to see them. Jaskier risked a glance over, but couldn’t make out any insignia.

The innkeeper spoke with the men, then pointed over to Jaskier. “That’s the one you’re looking for then,” he said. “Said he’s travelled with a Witcher.”

Jaskier hastily turned back to his ale as the men came over. Escape didn’t look likely, but he did still have his lute out. Hopefully they would escape this one like they had all the others.

“Evening gentlemen,” he said as the trio approached him. “Here to make a few requests?” He grabbed his lute in his other hand, hoping that the men wouldn’t take his absent strumming to be any more than it was. He was just a harmless bard, that’s all, certainly no one they needed to be concerned with. Really, it would be best if they just went on their way and stopped bothering these lovely people.

The man in the lead sneered nastily. “Your little tricks won’t work on us, bard,” he said. 

Before Jaskier could react, the man had grabbed his lute and smashed it against the floor. Jaskier cried out, reaching for what would surely be just shards of wood. But the lute was miraculously undamaged. Magic indeed, he thought. That didn’t help him now though; without his lute he was basically helpless.

“Huh,” the man said. “I guess she was right; it is a magic lute.” He handed it to one of the men behind him. “Take this. Without it, the bard shouldn’t be any trouble.”

Jaskier scrambled up from the bench, trying to back up. “Now, now, I’m sure we can resolve whatever this is peacefully. I’m honestly not sure what it is you’re looking for, I haven’t slept with anyone in ages, ow!” The man had grabbed his arm in a bruising grip. “Really, all this violence is completely unnecessary,” Jaskier continued, trying to hide that he was now grasping at the back of his belt for his dagger. Not that he thought it would do much good, a middle-aged bard with a dagger against three soldiers, but he certainly wouldn’t be going out without a fight, particularly after the bastards had tried to smash his lute.

He got one good swipe at the man holding his arm, making him curse and let go to clutch at his now bleeding cheek. The other two soldiers moved in to grab him, slamming him to the floor and kicking away his dagger. “You’ll pay for that, bard,” the leader hissed. The other two dragged Jaskier up, holding him firmly by each arm. The leader grabbed Jaskier’s things and tossed a coin (ha) to the innkeeper. “Sorry for the trouble.”

Jaskier found himself marched out of the inn and onto the street. “Hold on now,” he said, pulling futilely at the hold on his arms. “I suppose I should apologize for the attempted stabbing earlier, but really you shouldn’t just go around assaulting random bards. I’m sure we can just talk this out, get over whatever misunderstanding you have.” There was no response from his captors, so he continued, “I’m no one, you see, just passing through, and really I have no idea what you could want with me –”

The leader stopped, turned, and backhanded Jaskier across the face. He reeled back, gasping. “Gods, do you ever shut up?” the man asked. “It would be in your best interest to keep quiet until we start asking questions.”

Jaskier almost asked his own questions again, but the throbbing in his jaw and across his cheekbone made it clear that would not work out well for him. Instead he nodded sullenly, and kept his head down until they reached a building at the outskirts of town. It had clearly been abandoned at one point, but there were yet more soldiers milling around outside and a light shone from one of the second story windows. He tried to get a look at one of the soldiers’ insignias as he was marched into the building, catching a glimpse of one just as they went inside. Nilfgaard. 

To borrow from his former friend the Witcher: fuck. There was nothing good that Nilfgaard would want with him, especially if it was his connection with Geralt they were after. More fool them; he had no idea where the Witcher was and he didn’t want to know.

Although, at this point, he thought as he was dragged into the house, he might want to know, if only so that he could simply tell them where Geralt was and skip the inevitably painful and tedious torture. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. Geralt might be a monosyllabic ass, but he also did not deserve to be captured and tortured by Nifgaard.

He was abruptly jolted from his musing on what exactly Geralt did deserve (a dunk in a very cold river or sour ale for the rest of his days) by the fact that their little party had finally come to a halt.

They’d stopped in what had clearly been the dining room of the house, before the soldiers had taken it over, which had now been converted into an impromptu office. The man sitting at the desk was nondescript, the sort of fellow you wouldn’t give a second glance at if you passed him in the street, but there was something about the dismissive way he looked up from his reports that made Jaskier very afraid. Men who were easily angered were men who were easily swayed. This man had an air of casual disinterest that meant Jaskier’s charms were unlikely to work on him. Nor, of course, would any pleas for mercy.

“So, you’re the Witcher’s bard,” the man said. “I’ll be honest, I expected someone with more…presence.”

Jaskier bristled at everything in that statement. “First off, I have plenty of presence,” he said, before remembering that it was probably a bad idea to mouth off at the people holding him captive (again). “And second, I don’t know anything about any Witchers.”

“You don’t, do you?” the man asked. “You were singing about one tonight, according to the innkeeper.”

“Oh, well, everyone knows those songs,” he said, attempting a lofty wave with one hand only to be brought up short by the grip on his arm. “I’m just passing through, trying to bring in a little extra coin.”

The man looked at him for a long moment. “You’re funny, bard,” he said finally. “But unfortunately, I don’t believe you. What I do believe, is that you know where Geralt of Rivia is.”

“You see, this is why you should ask questions before you kidnap people,” Jaskier said, “because then you’d know that I haven’t seen Geralt in over a year and I have no idea where he is, and good riddance.”

“Really?” the man asked. “Decades you’ve been singing about the Witcher, and now you expect me to believe that you have no idea where he is?”

“Well Geralt’s an ass, you see, and so I tend to hang out around him as little as possible,” Jaskier said, aware that he was rambling. The man’s stare was just really creepy. “In fact, he insulted me so badly last time we met that I’ve actually been avoiding him, so really, you’d be better off asking literally anyone else.”

“I see,” the man said.

It did not sound like he, in fact, saw, but Jaskier was ever hopeful. “So…can I go?”

The man laughed. “Of course not. Take him down to the cells, lads. Let’s see if he tells the same story after a few days of our hospitality.”

Jaskier did not like the sound of that at all, although he was glad they hadn’t decided to bring up the torture yet. He was sure they’d get to it.

The cells appeared to be converted storage rooms, so they were a fair sight more comfortable than the dripping stone walls that Jaskier’s imagination had conjured, but the door was unfortunately still very sturdy. He poked at it for a while after his guards had tossed him in, before giving up and slouching against the wall.

Well, this was a real toss-up. Stuck in a prison cell with no lute and no hope of rescue, all because of that stupid Witcher. He wondered what exactly Geralt had done to get Nilfgaard on his tail.

It was difficult to tell how much time had passed down in the cellars, but Jaskier definitely became bored before he started getting thirsty. The same four walls could only be so interesting for so long. He started singing to himself to pass the time. May be if he was loud enough, he’d annoy the guards so much that they’d let him go. Or kill him. Details.

He’d gone through most of his more popular repertoire before his throat started to get dry. Nobody came to tell him to shut up, so he concluded that he must have been left alone down here. Doubtless the soldiers had other poor people to go off and kidnap.

With no one to irritate, boredom started to set in again. If only he had his lute, he might stand a chance of getting out of this, but on his own, he was out of luck. This would be a good song though, if only it weren’t happening to him. He started humming a bit, trying to work out the lyrics for lack of anything better to do. Of course, if this were a song, then someone would show heroically to rescue him, or at the very least the hinges would be rusted through and he’d be able to escape…

The sound of the door sagging off its hinges jolted him off the floor.

“That’s weird,” he mused, squinting at the door. Of course, you couldn’t count on the quality of these makeshift prisons, but it was awfully suspicious that it had occurred as he’d sung it.

“But I don’t even have my lute,” he muttered as he walked over to the door. Could the magic on the lute have transferred to him somehow? He had been playing it for two decades now. Maybe something had rubbed off?

Well, not time like the present to test that theory. He hummed a bit to himself, a little ditty he’d learned as a student about a thief escaping while the guards were drunk and asleep. He wasn’t thief exactly, but hopefully it was close enough to do the trick, especially as the door made an awful screeching noise as he pulled it open.

There weren’t any guards in the hallway, asleep or otherwise, and he heard no footsteps coming to investigate the noise. Now all he needed was his lute and he could make his way out of here. Luckily, he knew plenty of songs about finding lost objects, and he was able to follow the pull of the song to a storage room where his lute had been tossed among the other effects. He rushed over to it, checking it for any damage.

“Did the bad men hurt you?” he asked it. “That’s ok, we’ll get you out of here.”

No one stopped him as he made his way out of the cellars. Two guards stood at the top of the stairs, but they had slumped against the wall and one was snoring lightly. Jaskier tiptoed past them, hoping whatever enchantment he’d cast would hold.

There were more soldiers in the main hallway. These were not asleep – apparently they had not been in range of his magic. And it was risky to start singing now, since he would probably be heard before he was able to do any real damage.

He quietly retreated back the way he had come, ducking into an empty closet. There was probably only a short amount of time before the sleeping guards were discovered, and subsequently his own escape. But there was no way he could fight past all of the guards. He just needed to think of the right song that would get them out of his way.

A distraction, that’s what was needed. Usually, he was very distracting himself, but right now he needed to create a distraction somewhere else. However, before he could think of something to sing, there was a great commotion somewhere outside and most of the guards rushed out of the building to see what was going on.

Jaskier waited until most of them were gone and then carefully crept down through the hallway towards the door.

“And where do you think you’re going, bard?” It was the man who had threatened him earlier.

His hand was on the door handle, but the sword he could feel digging into his back discouraged any further movement.

“Well, I was enjoying your fabulous hospitality, but since the guards seem to be otherwise occupied, I thought I might be on my way,” he said lightly, trying to surreptitiously move away from the sharp object.

It did not work. “That’s an interesting tale,” the man said, “but I’d be more interested to know how you got out of your cell.”

“Well, you see, you really should look at securing your doors better, and not just letting the hinges, you know, swing loose, and really it was just dumb luck that they threw me in that cell and,” he swallowed, “you’re not buying any of this, are you?”

“Not really,” the man said. The sword unfortunately moved from his back to right next to his head. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on, and I might let you keep your tongue?”

“Why don’t you unhand the bard, and I’ll let you keep yours?” said a deep voice from further behind him.

The sword disappeared from Jaskier’s line of sight, and he spun around to take in the scene. The man had engaged an attacker, who looked surprising like a certain Witcher. Hadn’t he just been thinking that it would be awful convenient for Geralt to show up and rescue him? On the other hand, he’d nearly done it himself, and now the great lout would get all the credit.

The fight over rather quickly, and soon Geralt was standing over the man’s corpse. The enemy disposed of, the Witcher turned to Jaskier.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Jaskier had so many questions, he didn’t know which one to ask first. It nearly rendered him speechless, but fortunately that wasn’t a problem he’d ever actually encountered. “How on earth did you find me?” he started with, followed by, “And why were you even looking in the first place?”

“We were just passing through,” the Witcher replied, “but I heard something about a bard being taken by the soldiers. I figured, if anyone would be getting into trouble, it would be you.”

Jaskier gasped in offense, hand on his chest. He was aware he was being dramatic, but after the day he’d had, he thought he was entitled. “I’ll have you know that this whole thing was your fault! They didn’t want me at all, just kept asking me if I knew where _you_ were.”

Geralt, to his credit, did look slightly uncomfortable. “I think I might know why they were asking,” he said, “which is why we should probably go.”

He hustled Jaskier back to the town, not to the inn (probably for the best), but to a small house on the outskirts. Geralt knocked a pattern on the door, and it creaked open. A girl peered out. “Geralt, you’re back!” she said.

Despite the short hair and attempt at a dye job, it did not take much for Jaskier to recognize Princess Cirilla, looking as much like her mother as she did. “Oh,” he said. “Well, that does rather explain it.”

“Keep your voice down,” Geralt hissed, pushing him into the house. “And we need to get moving. I don’t think anyone saw, but it’s only a matter of time before they start searching the town.”

Jaskier’s things were all back at the inn, where he assumed it would not be safe to return. He briefly mourned his new doublet, but at least he had his satchel with his notebook and his lute, so, priorities. Geralt moved through the house, presumably gathering his own and the princess’ things, leaving Jaskier to stand awkwardly in the hallway with said princess.

“Are you the bard?” the princess asked.

“I am a bard, princess, though you’ll have to be a little more specific,” he replied.

“The one Geralt said is coming with us,” she said, as if he were an idiot.

“Am I coming with you?” he asked.

Geralt came up and tossed a pack at him. “Not safe for you here. Unless,” he hesitated, “unless you really would rather not.”

Jaskier pretended to consider it. “I suppose if I really must,” he heaved an entirely theatrical sigh. “And hey, I might be able to help now! After playing it for so long, the magic lute seems to have actually given me magic powers.”

Geralt looked at him as if he were stupid. That was like the third person today – it was starting to be a theme. “Yennefer said the lute’s not magic.”

“Explain how I got out of that cellar, then,” Jaskier said, crossing his arms.

Geralt just looked at him until he finally made the connection. “You mean I could have been just doing magic by myself the whole time!” he whisper-shouted. He didn’t need Geralt telling him to be quiet again. “Why didn’t you say something?”

The Witcher just rolled his eyes. “Come on, we need to move.” He turned and strode out of the house, clearly expected the others to follow.

“You can learn magic with me,” Ciri said, latching onto his arm. “Geralt said Yennefer will teach me, once we can find her.”

Jaskier gaped soundlessly, finally speechless. “I am not learning anything from that b-…witch,” he amended hastily. The look the princess gave him heavily implied that she knew exactly what word he had been about to say and was not impressed. Between her, Yennefer, and Geralt (and also the giant army after them), he was in for an interesting winter.


End file.
